


Rift

by Calliecature



Category: Disney - All Media Types, Disney - Fandom, Disney Cartoons (Classic), Disney Duck Universe
Genre: Gen, world war two mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-17 07:22:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15456213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calliecature/pseuds/Calliecature
Summary: Mickey always blamed himself for the rift between him and Donald. For not being there for Donald during WW2. For not convincing Walt harder to get drafted too. So he tries his best to be a better friend after that. Like keeping him out of trouble by convincing him not to join protests in 2018. Because Disney Studios doesn’t involve itself with political matters. But there are some things Mickey couldn't understand in Donald's world that’s bigger than Disney Studios.





	Rift

**Author's Note:**

> After running into so many news about the current events in the US, I’ve always wondered how Donald Duck would react to it. After all, he was “drafted” to fight against the Nazi Germany. He would have a far different experience and views from Mickey who Walt refused to get involved with war propaganda.

****It was like reasoning with a wall. A feathered, stomping wall.

“Donald, you know how _they_ feel about this,” Mickey still attempted. He ducked. An icebox flew. It crashed right into the living room. More scrapings ensued in the closet where it came from.

He straightened up again slowly, arms crossed over his head. In case more heavy objects decided to defy gravity. “They don’t like it when we get involved with controversies.”

Donald just soldiered past him, his bill pressed into a firm stubborn line. He grabbed the icebox and went to the kitchen. Mickey followed. He watched Donald upend ice cube trays into the ice box.

“You know what Walt would say if he was still alive?” Mickey asked. He didn’t miss how Donald paused. How Donald bashed the ice cubes out of the tray with renewed aggression. The duck flung open the refrigerator door.

“He’d say we’re here to bring magic,” he said louder over the water bottles now being dumped into the icebox. “Donald!” he grabbed Donald’s wrist to stop him from tuning him out. “Whatcha want to do is great and all. But there are other ways to help without complicating things for everybody.”

Donald snatched his wrist away, his eyes burning with weight that was ready to fly off the handle. Instead, he grabbed the filled icebox and turned his back on Mickey.

Mickey’s mouth hung open. Donald was obviously irate. When Donald is irate, he would be ranting. Which would make him more gibberish. Which would make him less understandable. Which would just add fuel to his fire.

But underneath his own confusion, there was a stinging twinge at Donald’s dismissal. He could feel it again. The rift between them. It was beyond the clash of their personalities that had labelled them as an odd couple. A curious disconnect that had stretched for more than 70 years.

 _Then talk to me, Donald!_ He wanted to shout. Walt had always said Donald is his problem child. Mickey sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Look, I want to join protests too. I want to do the good. But this is messy.” He went around to face Donald again. “We’ll find another way to help,” he said with a hopeful smile. Hope that he got through to Donald. Hope that Donald realizes the weight they carry as Walt’s children. Hope that for once, Donald would listen.

Donald only walked past him and disappeared in the closet again. Mickey wanted to tear his own ears off. Ever since Donald’s creation back in 1930s, Donald never recognized Mickey’s responsibility in being in charge -in and out of the set.

“Amy will be harder on you after this,” he said. Amy was Donald’s newest handler. Donald was usually a tired, passive slacker. Until he goes off. After that, it’s a battle of wills with a duck that had mastered bullheadedness into perfection. Eighty years could do that.

Donald didn’t answer. He just placed the first aid kit beside the icebox. Mickey gaped at it. Donald, as a toon, hardly needs that. Toons were pretty much indestructible. “What does Daisy think about this?” Mickey asked.

“She. Un. Der. Stands,” he grounded out, each syllable a heel grinding pointfully on Mickey.

Mickey frowned, meeting his eyes. That was unfair. Here he was trying to communicate with someone who’s shutting him out and he was the one who couldn’t understand him?

 _I should’ve been there for him,_ he thought in frustration. _Should’ve tried harder with Walt. I could’ve convinced him. I would’ve been there for him._

Should’ve. Could’ve. Would’ve.

Mickey closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Once he had asked Walt why Donald couldn’t just be good. _Everything you are, he isn’t,_ Walt had confided. _Everything he is, you aren’t._

“Who are you going with?” Mickey asked.

Donald looked away and his shoulders fell with a huff. In his own Donaldy-way, it was his form of regret. For that, Mickey forgave him.

“I’m going with José and Panchito,” he offered in a gruff non-apology apology.

Mickey tried to ignore the surge of jealousy. Panchito and José have helped Donald from his darkest times after World War 2. Something he nor Goofy couldn’t get Donald out of.

He chastised himself. At least they made Donald smile back in those days when Mickey could only watch as Donald spiralled. Panchito and José could be controversial -smoking and gunning and sleeping around. But the two birds were good for Donald. He remembered how Donald would disappear to Brazil or Mexico at least once a year. Perhaps, even too good.

“They want to be there for the immigrants,” Donald said. Mickey quickly wiped away any emotion his face might betray. He wondered if Donald saw right through his shameful jealousy. He was supposed to be a good friend. Someone who’s purely happy for him.

Donald took his placard from its resting place. His fingers slid down the freshly dried paint, its message bold and clear.

“Mickey… remember when Goofy and I got drafted?”

Mickey startled. Donald never talked about the war. Never wanted to. Mickey placed his hands over his. Just as he predicted, Donald moved his hands away, still holding the sign.

“I wanted to be drafted too,” Mickey quietly said. His ears lowered. “But Walt wouldn’t let me.”

Another closeted flaw he kept to himself. While Goofy was only a posterboy in bombardment squads, Donald was more involved in the war. Aside from the propaganda films, Donald actually served.

But at what cost?

The stormier eyes. The heightened sensitivity to sudden noises. ( _Grenades,_ he told himself. _It was those goshdarned grenades._ ) The defeated weariness after there was nothing left to destroy in his fits of anger. The directors thought it was funny. Mickey had trusted Walt.

In a way, Walt did help Donald. He brought him along to his diplomatic missions in Latin America where Donald first met José. Then Panchito. Mickey wished Donald had gotten psychiatric help sooner instead.

“I should’ve convinced him harder to let me get drafted too,” Mickey said, his voice dropping into a whisper. The room seemed to get colder as he pulled out his own confessional like pulling out his teeth with a rusty hook. “It should’ve been us together: Mickey, Donald and Goofy. Like we always do.”

 _And maybe then, you wouldn’t have to face the war alone,_ he thought, a bitter taste invading the back of his throat.

Donald dryly stared at him as though Mickey couldn’t see it.

 _See what?!_ Mickey wanted to scream. This wasn’t the first time Donald had looked at him laconically like he was a little kid. A little kid who couldn’t tell apart real life from cartoons. Whenever Mickey gave thought about Donald, the duck was stimulatingly, frustratingly a bag of contradictions. Selfish and selfless. Apathetic and passionate. But self-absorbed and aware at the same time?

But he was Mickey Mouse. He didn’t rage or scream. That was Donald’s thing. Instead, he only felt lost. He was usually the one who shows Donald how to be happy. But when did bliss became ignorance?

“You’re his golden boy,” Donald opened the first aid kit and counted the gauze. There was no resentment. No jealousy. Just weariness from living with the facts. “Walt would never be convinced to get you tainted by reality.”

Mickey held his arm as if covering a sting.

“Walt meant well,” Mickey said, he couldn’t help that his tone sounded protesting. “He just didn’t expect...” he shrugged, looking around. Trying to find the right word for the gray that came after. The gray that had colored Donald underneath pristine white feathers. “...Everything.”

There was something distant in Donald’s eyes as he looked at Mickey. Like he was watching a bird fly because that’s what birds do.

“No point regretting what wasn’t done,” Donald said, eyeing the amount of antiseptic in a bottle. Mickey got the feeling he wasn’t only talking about him not getting drafted.

“Donald,” Mickey grabbed his arm. This was it. “I wasn’t there to share what you’ve been through-”

Donald tried to shrug him off, looking confused. “I never wanted you to.”

But Mickey held on. “-and I’m trying to be a better friend-”

“What?!”

“-that’s why I don’t want you to get into trouble.” Mickey could already imagine the internet wars following the protests where Donald, Panchito and José would be seen. With Donald’s temper, probably lawsuits included. The PRs. The paparazzis going nuts. “The executives would let us hold charities. Give donations. Promote NGOs. Be a more positive influence without opposing anyone.”

He squeezed his arm. “Donald, things don’t always have to be messy.”

Donald leaned away. He stared at Mickey so hard, Mickey could almost see the gears grinding behind his eyes.

“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not your fault,” Donald finally said.

“But Donald-”

“Nope! Nu-uh! You’re not going to make me say it, Mickey!”

“Donald, what’re you-”

“You’re a great friend! There! I said it!” Donald’s face shone firetruck red. “Don’t you dare try any harder or you’ll drive me up the wall!”

Mickey stood there frozen, trying to understand what was happening. Donald only looked at him frustratingly, silently blaming him at the turn of their conversation.

“Does that mean you’ll take up my offer?” Mickey asked in a small, hopeful voice that wheedled through the awkwardness between them.

Donald slapped a hand over his face. Hard. He slowly dragged it over his eyes. Then down his bill. Mickey felt like a kid who had asked an idiotic question to a parent whose patience was running thin.

But instead of throwing up his hands with an “Ah, phooey!” Donald just sighed.

“Mickey… I’ve seen what that hate,” he gestured outside, “had lead to before.“

Mickey snapped to attention. Donald spoke each word slow and deliberate to be understandable over his speech impediment. Donald never had the patience for it before.

Donald picked up his icebox and first aid kit, his sign tucked under his arm. “This is another war and I’m going to fight it.” A shadow crossed his face that Mickey could only imagine what it was. “Before it gets bloody…. Bloodier than last time.”

Before he could walk away, Mickey grabbed his hand. Donald glanced at it before looking at Mickey.

“I can’t be there with you,” Mickey said quietly. Rough with anguish at what he must do. Or rather what he mustn’t do.

Donald only smiled as though once again, he was expecting this. “I know.”

Mickey could almost feel the “child-friendly” bounds keeping him at place. It was what Walt would’ve wanted for him. He tried to smile back.

Donald laughed at his attempt. His smile must’ve looked like he was grinding broken glass under his palm.

“Ah, phooey!” His webbed foot kicked imaginary dust. Donald slipped his hand away from his, looking anywhere but at Mickey’s unbearably conflicted face. “The kids still need you. Away from all of this,” Donald waved his hand.

Mickey just hung his head and Donald thought harder.

“This time, I won’t really be alone,” he finally said. “Don’t worry ‘bout me!”

They suddenly hear a car honk in the beat of the Cucaracha.

Donald’s face lit up with a smile that could challenge the sun. “Panchito! José!” He was gone in a puff of dust. Mickey didn’t need to see them to know that they’re in a happy tangle of hugs with a confusing showering of Portuguese-Spanglish.

Mickey watched them by the door. There was still a rift between them. An abyss that Mickey couldn’t cross. Walt meant so much to him that he would always follow Walt’s wish. Donald had understood that longer. However, above that abyss, there was now a connection firmly taut between them.

He watched them all shout, “The Three Caballeros!” He felt that surge of jealousy again. This time, it was fainter. There was an acceptance with the fact that at least Panchito and José wouldn’t just be there to pick up the pieces like last time. They would have his back.

Donald gave him one last glance and Mickey finally gave him a genuine smile, waving. Panchito and José waved back. They drove off, their picket signs sticking out of their car.

As long as Donald wouldn’t be alone in the other side of the rift, Mickey took comfort that he would be okay.  


**Author's Note:**

> Alright, most of you may not like where Mickey had stood in here. But Mickey is the face of Disney who always do what’s right for his Disney kingdom. He would always choose the pacifist way first until it no longer works. Donald, who has a slight disregard for rules, would’ve set for a more confrontative path.


End file.
